The most terrifying sound—

an ice cream truck

in the middle of the night.
I’m perfectly flat

feeling my fingerprints.

It occurs to me that

the answer to our childhood questions is:

we’re being tortured.
When I’m with my thoughts finally

I’m someone else, I am

driving an ice cream truck though the night

with no lights, pulling on the string that rings the bell.

I am the unwholesome whippoorwill trilling in the moonlight.

I am awake late defending the campsite against elves.

I am tortured in a sandbox at the army base.

I am throwing sand in a little boy’s eyes.

I am getting very sleepy.